Billy read the note—­just a few lines, with a frown of puzzlement.

Dear William:  Business compels my absence for a time.  I hope you will go on with your plans exactly as if I were with you.  I am leaving a power-of-attorney which will enable you to turn over the stock and transact any other business that may demand immediate attention, in case I am detained.

Yours truly,

Alexander P. Dill

It was queer, but Billy did not waste much time in wondering.  He rounded up the last of the Double-Cranks, drove them to Brown’s place and turned them over, with the home ranch, the horses, and camp outfit—­“made a clean sweep uh the whole damn’, hoodooed works,” was the way he afterward put it.  He had expected that Dill would be there to attend to the last legal forms, but there was no sign of him or from him.  He had been seen to take the eastbound train at Tower, and the rest was left to guessing.

“He must uh known them two-hundred odd wouldn’t square the deal,” argued Billy loyally to himself.  “So uh course he’ll come back and fix it up.  But what I’m to do about payin’ off the boys gets me.”  For two hours he worried, mentally in the dark.  Then he hit upon an expedient that pleased him.  He told Brown he would need to keep a few of the saddle-horses for a few days, and he sent the boys—­those of them who did not transfer their valuable services to Brown upon the asking—­over to the Bridger place to wait there until further orders.

Also, he rode reluctantly to the Double-Crank ranch, wondering, as he had often done in the past few weeks, what would become of Flora and Mama Joy.  So far as he knew, they had not heard a word as to whether Bridger was alive or dead, and if they had friends or family to whom they might turn, he had never heard either mention them.  If Dill had been there he would have left it to him; but Dill was gone, and there was no knowing when he would be back, and it devolved upon Billy to make some arrangements for the women, or at the least offer his services—­and it was, under the circumstances, quite the most unpleasant duty thus far laid upon him.

He knew they had been left there at the ranch when round-up started, because Dill had said something about leaving a gentle horse or two for them to ride.  Whether they were still there he did not know, although he could easily have asked Spikes, who had been given charge of the ranch while Dill was away on the range.  He supposed the Pilgrim would be hanging around, as usual—­not that it made much difference, though, except that he hated the thought of a disagreeable scene before the women.

He rode slowly up to the corral gate, turned his horse inside and fastened the chain just as he had done a thousand times before—­only this would be the last time.  His tired eyes went from one familiar object to another, listlessly aware of the regret he should feel but too utterly wearied of sorrow to feel much of anything.  No one seemed to be about, and the whole place had an atmosphere of desolation that almost stirred him to a heartache—­almost.